by H. D. Gordon
“You’re aware of my feelings and policies regarding punctuality, Josephine?” Professor Johnson asked.
I nodded, ignoring her assumption about my name and feeling only slightly more at ease now that I was no longer standing before my peers like some sideshow attraction. I spoke as slowly as I always do. The pace of my words, combined with my jerky head bobs and different appearance make most who hear me speak think me simple. This doesn’t bother me. My speech is indeed slow and laboring, but my mind is quick and unhindered. I consider it an advantage to be underestimated in such a way, and as a person who has lived life with visions and premonitions, I tend to have little time to brood over what others think of me. This doesn’t mean I jump at an opportunity to speak publicly. My stammer is even worse under pressure.
“Uh-uh-apologies, muh-ma’am,” I said. “Wuh-won’t huh-happen again.”
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to your grade,” she replied, turning back to the board to continue her lesson.
Earlier I said I disliked Professor Johnson a touch. I’ll amend that now. I disliked her more than just a touch. If I thought I could get the words out without stammering, I might have said, “Sorry, grade.” A speech impediment is an excellent sarcasm suppressor.
I tried to be as silent as I could manage, but when you show up late to class, the zipper on your backpack seems to amplify its ziiip! sound and the removal of a simple notebook and pen seem to shuffle as loudly as loose papers in an angry wind. I ignored Professor Johnson’s displeased glances as I readied myself to take notes on stories I had read in middle school. I don’t stutter when I read. I read a lot.
We were nearing the end of class when my left hand began to itch in an unmistakable manner. I squeezed my free hand into a tight fist, burying my nails into my palms. My throat went instantly dry, as if the rapid pace of my heartbeat was sucking all the moisture from it and redirecting it to leak from my pores. I kept my eyes glued to the front of the small classroom. I didn’t want to watch. I couldn’t make myself look down. My hand, holding a number two pencil, began to work its way across the page of my notebook, uncaring of the meager notes I’d scribbled there.
I carry with me at all times a drawing notebook and a pack of colored pencils. Color can make the scenes I draw easier to distinguish. At the moment, I didn’t have the time to retrieve these items from my backpack. Later I would wish that I had.
My breathing became labored. I tried to focus on anything other than the page on which I was currently sketching. The fluorescents above me adopted a blinding glow. The room seemed smaller than it ever had. My jaw clenched and unclenched. My left hand continued to move on its own accord. Five minutes later, it stopped.
I pushed a dry tongue over dry lips. I didn’t want to look down at whatever future lay on the lined page atop my desk. I didn’t want the obligation. I looked down.
Internally, my stomach was clenching and roiling, my mind racing and flying. Externally, all I did was stare, my eyes exploring every detail of the drawing I shouldn’t be able to draw, the scene I shouldn’t be able to see. Like a rubbernecker of the worst kind. At least I wasn’t slowing down traffic.
On the page was a scene depicted in shades of granite that somehow managed to scream red. I have since burned the sketch, as I had all of its predecessors, but it has in turn burned itself into my memory. As have all the others.
I knew the setting, not the exact location, but the setting. The large field with plush grass and oak trees in the background may have been beautiful, if not for the scene in the forefront. The paved paths and stone buildings could have been majestic, if the granite-colored blood was not marring the faces of them. Yes, even depicted in gray, I knew it was blood, because the horrible, beautifully drawn scene held other clues as well.
There were bullet holes. And bodies. So many bodies…
Off to the side, but somehow seemingly the center of it all, was the silhouette of what looked like a man with his back to the camera, standing like a shadow in a world of dreadful and leaked life, angry looking shadow-guns clutched in both of his hands, countless people cut down at his feet.
As I stared at the scene, all of the blood flowing through my body dropped ten degrees, or so it felt, and I sat in my school seat and closed my eyes, at first feeling as though it was difficult to take in air. I clenched my teeth against it all and cursed the universe in a silent mental string of obscenities and blasphemies for the impossible foresight that has shaped a great deal of my life.
It didn’t take a genius to recognize what I had drawn. Even a stuttering simpleton like me got the message loud and clear.
Someone was going to shoot up the school. More precisely, someone was planning a massacre at UMMS.
Chapter Two
The Decider
April 20th was just around the corner, and since it was his favorite day of the year, he wanted to do something special, something…fun. He wanted to celebrate not only the birthday of The Great Adolf Hitler—now there was a man with a vision—but his own Decisions to aspire to greatness as well. He was starting to believe that he was even better than his idol, who, after all, had failed at achieving the perfect society. Hell, yeah, he was better than Hitler. He was better than everybody.
For the longest time he had been thinking small, way too small, but he’d gotten an idea last week that had morphed into something magnificent. It was all he could think about. The fantasizing was just not enough. He had to do what he had to do, and he would, because he Decided.
Last Sunday he’d taken a trip to the range, tested out his ability to shoot straight. He’d been delighted to find that he had a natural talent with the weapons. A gift of natural selection, he thought. It was goddamn destiny. He knew it.
He was being meticulous in his planning, because he knew no other way to be. Even as a boy he had been very neat and organized, so much so that his dear mother had always bragged about him to her friends. “Danny’s such a proper boy,” she would say, and they all would smile and nod and pat him on the head. “I know,” the others would agree, “so proper and quiet.” What stupid bitches.
His father had been even worse. Big Dan would try to interest little Danny in pointless things, like fishing and baseball, but he was too stupid to help Danny with his algebra homework if he needed it. Not that he ever did. Danny believed he was legions more intelligent than both of his folks. Sometimes he would wonder at how they were even related. He would deny the possibility entirely if he hadn’t needed a blood transfusion at the age of eight and his ape of a father hadn’t volunteered as the donor.
Yeah, those two were a couple morons, his parents. They had lived with Danny for eighteen years and never once figured out what he really was. They were so fooled by his façade that they didn’t bother to look past his innocent baby face. If they’d had two brain cells between the two of them they might have known that they had a…different child.
Danny didn’t believe he was insane. Hell, no. Danny just understood the world differently than everybody else. He knew the shit they didn’t know. That’s why he would get to Decide. He was also smarter, so maybe his parents weren’t as stupid as Danny was skilled. Psychopaths often wear impeccable masks. Anyhow, he didn’t blame them, in particular.
He blamed all of them.
He hated all of them, and the stupid shit they did in their pointless little lives. The girls who wore slutty clothing and too much makeup, the fucking football players with their tight uniforms, the ugly girls who wore no makeup, the stupid groups who stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking it up and talking, the kids in class who always had some irrelevant, bullshit story to tell, the teachers with the thick accents who made it hard to understand their lessons, the fucking hippie teachers who taught useless shit like dance or ethics, the crack-head workers in the food court, the handicapped people, the fat people, the skinny people. All of them. So much hate.
Because they were what was wrong with the world.
But it was going
to be okay, because come Monday, he would do his honest part in rectifying the situation. He would weed out the lesser forms. Survival of the fittest, motherfucker.
And he really did shoot straight.
Chapter Three
Joe
Most of my premonitions happen as flashes of images or video clips in my head, like with the fall Mr. Landry would have taken down the stairs this morning if I hadn’t waited for him. These visions usually only tell of smaller disasters. When the premonition that comes to me involves more people, more damage, it comes to me through illustrations.
I am no artist. If I were to try to draw a simple dog or kitten or flower, it would come out looking like the work of a five-year-old. However, when my gift is in action I believe even Picasso would be impressed by my sketches. The problem is I only get one scene, one viewpoint. I don’t get a time, a place, or any other useful information. This makes acting on my visions rather difficult. All I get is the horror. And the obligation.
Over the years I have considered the possibility that I was given my gift so I could help people, that I could make the world a better place. I have all but discarded this possibility. For one, it seems to me to be incredibly pretentious. For two, if I have been designated by the Almighty to do something about the tragedies that affect our world, why then not just tell me the when and where? My belief now is something closer to a reality in which I am being made to suffer. I think ninety-nine percent of people feel this way at some point or other in their lives. I hold stock in those numbers.
You may think this is an easy way for me to write off this obligation I keep mentioning. It isn’t. Whether I believe in a greater purpose or not, I believe wholly in the fact that I am obligated to do something about the visions I see. Not because I am a hero. I’ve told you I am not. But because I know if I do not at least try to stop the bad things from happening, I will suffer even greater. I will be ashamed, or worse; guilty. If I try and fail, I will suffer also, though not as much as I would if I gave no effort. This is why I am no hero. My reasoning is mostly selfish. I don’t feel bad about this. I hold stock in numbers on this matter as well.
I flipped to a new page in my notebook. I would no doubt study my drawing in intimate detail later on. At the moment, in a classroom surrounded by so many other people, I couldn’t bear to keep looking at it. At the head of the class Professor Johnson was giving us additional assignments for next week. I copied what she wrote on the board in my notebook. I had no idea what the words said.
After this, she dismissed us. I gathered my things and managed to slip out the door before Johnson decided to berate me again. The hallways of the school were bustling with students going about their day. The sight of them all made my throat dry.
I had thirty minutes in between my first class and my second class. As usual, I headed straight to the classroom where I would be studying creative writing for the next few months. The classroom would be empty when I got there. I was glad for this. Everyone I passed in the hallways was now a suspect in my eyes: the girl with the pink polo shirt and short skirt that my mother would deem inappropriate in an educational setting—or any setting, according to her—the shaggy-haired skinny boy with the skateboard tucked under his arm, the group of people wearing all black and skulking in the corner, the people with their noses tucked into textbooks, the janitor, the woman serving coffee behind a counter, all of them. Everyone.
One of them was a soon-to-be killer. If I couldn’t figure out which one, many more than one would be victims.
I made it to my next class and slipped through the door with a sigh of relief. The lights were off in the classroom, but because of the windows on the west wall, the room was by no means dark. I didn’t bother to flip on the lights. Sitting in shadows soothes me.
I considered pulling out the book I had been reading this morning, but didn’t. I knew from experience that my mind would be able to focus on nothing other than my drawing until after the matter was over. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the top of my desk. I thought about my options.
The obvious one would be to alert the authorities about what was going to happen. The problem with this option was that I would have to give the tip anonymously to avoid questions I wouldn’t be willing to answer. Also, I didn’t know exactly when the shooting was going to take place, and if I caused a false alarm, that may delay their response time when the time really came. Long ago I had decided that going to the authorities in situations like these was unwise. Call me selfish, but I couldn’t risk exposure.
Another option would be to tell my friends, Kayla and Kyle, or even Aunt Susan about it. They all knew about my gift and would do their best to help me find a solution to this problem. But I had decided against this option long ago as well. While they would all be willing to help me, it was unfair of me to drag them into such things and add stress to their lives because I was feeling either lazy or inadequate.
Sometimes I feel quite alone. Again, stock in numbers.
There was what you might call an upside to my gift: When the shooting started, I would know.
I would feel it happening. The horror, the disbelief, the shock and the rawest of blood-freezing terror, and I would know. The downside to this aspect of clairvoyance: If I wasn’t in the right place, at the right time, or at least in the very immediate vicinity, I would more than likely be too late to do any good at all.
Disasters like the one I had sketched in the previous class period did not come to me often. In fact, barring the daycare incident, the fire incident, and the last one, I would say this new mission I had just involuntarily been pulled into was the worst I had ever foreseen. While the previous three had been as equally horrifying, this pending disaster was on a different level completely because of one thing; the potential body count was so much higher.
I was face to face with a potential massacre. I rubbed my head. I could feel a migraine coming on. It was times like these that made me wish my gift had come with the receipt. Actually, I suppose I’ve always wished that. I told you, no hero.
Chapter Four
Sixteen years ago, Sunnyland Daycare
Joe Knowe, five years old, sits at a low table in a blue plastic toddler chair. Around her, the one-room daycare is full of energized children. Joe looks at the brightly colored clock on the wall to her left. She can’t yet read the time, but she knows when both arrows point straight down in the circle her mother will arrive to pick her up. The arrows are not yet at this point, but they are getting close.
Joe watches the other children and the two adult caretakers as they go about their business: removing every toy possible from its storage spot, picking noses, crying and screaming, laughing and running, and so on. Sometimes Joe plays too, but not often. Already she is a serious little person, and brighter than most, though you wouldn’t know it.
Joe watches a little blond girl that she sometimes plays with when the rare mood strikes her. The girl is pretty, with bouncy golden curls and large brown eyes. Like Joe, she is five years old and doesn’t speak much. Unlike Joe, it is because the girl is mildly challenged. Her disability has yet to be diagnosed. Joe’s only disability is a thick stutter, though her parents have on many occasions had her tested for the same affliction the blond suffers from. The girl looks up and sees Joe watching her. Joe is so unlike her blond-haired, blue-eyed parents, and the girl finds Joe’s raven hair and strange eyes striking in some way. She smiles sweetly. Joe returns the favor. She considers the girl a friend. Her name is Emily.
Joe’s hand begins to itch and throb. Her left hand, her dominant hand. It is the first time this has happened, and Joe’s little brow furrows as she sits at the low table in her blue plastic child’s chair. Already, in just five short years of life she has become accustomed to the images she sees, even understands what they mean, to the extent that any child can truly understand. She also knows that she cannot let knowledge of these images be gained by the Adults. Simple Joe, the name she would later be dubbed in high school,
has never fit her, not even as a child.
But this itching and throbbing sensation is new, and Joe stares down at her left hand. In the center of the little wooden table is a basket containing crayons and blank sheets of paper. Joe watches as her left hand reaches for the basket and pulls it toward her. She removes a sheet of paper and a black crayon, brow still deeply furrowed.
As she observes, her hand moves swiftly over the paper. Her strokes are erratic but precise. Joe’s head tilts to the side as she watches the picture unfold on her page, as curious as a rubbernecker waiting for a big truck to pass so that he can see the wreckage. The black crayon outlines, shades, foretells.
When her hand stops, Joe does not immediately remove it from over the no-longer-clear sheet of paper. For some reason, she doesn’t feel ready to look. If she’d had the vocabulary to express it, she would have said that she was apprehensive. At the time, the word that comes to Joe’s mind is spooked, though that word is not quite right.
Joe shuts her eyes, places her hands in her lap under the wooden table, and opens her eyes. At first she does not understand what she sees.
Well, she knows that it is a man, or better yet, a stranger. Dark eyes, dark hair, a large nose and fat lips, not ugly, average. Even at five years old Simple Joe can see the strangeness behind the man’s eyes. Though it is just a drawing of a man, Joe does not question that this man exists. At least to her he does. She has a word for him: Boogyman.
What Joe doesn’t know, but even so will blame herself for later, is that this man would soon be paying a visit to Sunnyland Daycare.
Chapter Five
Joe
I’d chewed every one of my fingernails down to nubs before the door to the classroom opened and another student entered the room. I kept my eyes down on the page of the book I had been pretending to read. I didn’t care to look into the face of another potential victim. The student who entered took a seat in a front row desk at the head of the small classroom. I noticed this peripherally. The words on the pages in front of me were perfectly visible, yet the meanings of any of them were beyond me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the globe that had been set on my shoulders. And I was thinking about Emily, which was never fun.